Friendship
by Joodiff
Summary: Sometimes everyone needs a friend. Post-"Endgame". T-rated for language. Birthday present for Scription Addict. Enjoy!


**DISCLAIMER:** I own nothing.

_Happy birthday, Scription Addict! x_

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**Friendship**

by Joodiff

* * *

"It's the adipocere," Eve explains in response to the sour twist of disgust evident in Kat's expression. The corpse lying on one of the lab's stainless-steel mortuary tables looks grey and waxy, and it's most definitely responsible for the harsh reek of ammonia that the forced ventilation system is having trouble coping with. Not usually given to squeamishness, Grace is nonetheless already aware of an unusual nagging low-level nausea that isn't improved one bit by the way Eve pokes illustratively at the dead man's scalp with a small metal probe.

"Gross," Kat mutters, the sentiment and the way it's delivered both decidedly unprofessional but extraordinarily apt.

"Lovely," Boyd concurs, the distaste heavy in his voice. He leans forward to peer at the dead man's well-preserved features, then straightens up, removes his glasses and shoves his hands into the pockets of his lab coat in a rough, unconscious display of belligerent defensiveness. "So, what you're telling me is that it's absolutely possible that he just floated around in that galvanised tank for six bloody _years_ without anyone noticing?"

Eve nods. "Yes."

"Jesus."

"Actually," she continues, leaning further forward over the corpse to peer at some interesting feature that has caught her attention, "what I'm telling you is that there's no reason connected to the _body_ itself and it's condition that might have led to discovery. Submerged in an external tank like that, there would have been little or no odour. Why he wasn't found for any other reason is way beyond my scientific remit, I'm afraid."

"What about the internal organs?" Boyd demands, and Grace notices that even he's visibly perturbed by Eve's increased proximity to the grisly remains laid out before them.

"Also saponified," she confirms, sounding almost gleeful at the opportunity to study the relatively rare phenomenon.

The unpleasant edge of nausea is getting worse. The lab, generally kept at a steady twenty degrees, is starting to feel unbearably hot, too. As discreetly as she can, Grace takes a series of slow, deep breaths through her mouth. It doesn't help much. She fancies she can taste the ammonia, and her stomach reacts with surly unease, making her swallow hard against a sudden tightness in her throat.

It's something to do with the chemotherapy. Must be. It's six days since her last cycle and her second back at work after a particularly debilitating round of post-treatment vomiting. Well enough to be back at her desk, maybe, but perhaps not quite well enough to be standing in the lab gazing at the nightmare-inducing, soapy remains of the late Alan Thorne, petty thief and occasional pimp.

Standing next to her, apparently oblivious to her discomfort, Boyd says, "So, basically, he's turned into a human candle?"

"For God's _sake_," Grace reproaches, fighting another unpleasant wave of hot sickness. "Do you have to? Do you _really_ have to?"

He grins at her, quick and fierce. "There's a reason they call it grave wax, you know."

She glares in response. "Please, for once can you at least _try_ to show a bit of common decency? A tiny bit of sensitivity?"

Kat snorts, a meaningful, derisive sound, but says nothing. Boyd shrugs, and then, seeming to tire of the sport, addresses Eve again. "Did he drown, or…?"

"Can't tell you yet, but if you look just here – "

Another hot surge rushes through Grace's body and Eve's voice becomes distant and muffled as intense dizziness and nausea compete for dominance. The lab seems to pivot, to tip to one side, throwing her off-balance. Instinct makes her reach out towards the steel table in an automatic attempt to steady herself, but she misses her target and sways hard, caught in a spiralling vertigo that eclipses everything. She thinks someone – Eve? – says her name, but the sound is so faint and so distorted that she's not sure if it's simply her imagination. As her knees start to buckle, she feels someone none-too-gently seize hold of her arm, and then… then there is nothing.

-oOo-

"Slow, deep breaths," Eve repeats, still monitoring Grace's radial pulse with tightened fingers that are firm and competent yet gentle. "Keep your head down."

Seated hunched over, Grace complains, "I really don't need all this fuss, I'm fine."

"Fine, she says," Boyd mutters from behind her. "Yeah, so _fine_ that if I hadn't grabbed you on the way down, you'd have cracked your head open on the damned floor."

She remembers feeling all the strength draining out of her, and the world becoming a grey, fuzzy nonsensical place. Doesn't quite recall how she ended up seated in the swivel chair at Eve's obsessively tidy desk, or how she ended up folded in half over her knees like a damned deckchair. Above her, Eve's voice says, "It's almost certainly a delayed side-effect of the chemo, but I think it would be wise if you went home and rested for a day or two."

Staring down at the chequered lab floor – unnaturally close – Grace scowls as she retorts, "I told you, I'm _fine_."

"Boyd?" Eve appeals.

He grunts, asks, "Does she need to see a doctor?"

"Not unless it happens again. Straightforward syncope… a simple faint. As I said, it's probably related to the chemo. Feeling sick and giddy for a few days afterwards, even with antiemetics… very common."

Slow and cautious, Grace straightens up in the swivel chair. The lab does not start to spin around her again which she takes as a good omen. Boyd moves to stand next to Eve, hands once again deep in his lab coat pockets. He does not look like a happy man, his brow furrowed and his eyebrows drawn down over his piercing dark eyes. Feeling the pressure of three intense, interrogative gazes, Grace manages a slight shrug and a vague, "Sorry."

"Don't be ridiculous," Boyd growls, then transfers his attention to Kat. "Call Spence, tell him that when he's finished in Ilford he can go straight to Moore Street nick and talk to DI Beresford on his own."

Kat's response is a prompt and laconic, "Sir." To Grace, she adds an awkward, "Hope you feel better soon."

"Why," Grace demands as Kat heads towards the lab's double set of outer doors to carry out her orders, "are you all treating me like an invalid? I just… had a bit of a funny turn. That's _all_. I'm perfectly okay now."

Boyd grunts again, but it is Eve who says, "Sorry, Grace, but I really think you'd be much better off at home. Professional opinion."

Eve, unlike her predecessors, is not just a forensics expert, but a pathologist and therefore a fully-qualified medical doctor. Not an oncologist, maybe, but –

"Go home," Boyd instructs, his tone making it clear that he does not intend to be argued with. "Take tomorrow off, and come back on Monday. _If_ you feel well enough."

Grace glowers up at him. "I take it that's not simply the advice of an old friend, _Superintendent_?"

He doesn't flinch. "Oh, it is, but if that's not enough, you can take it as the direct… instruction… of the head of this unit."

_Instruction_. It's a deliberate substitution, she knows. He can't give her direct orders the way he can Spencer, Kat, and everyone else in the CCU who holds a police warrant card, but the bottom line is the same now as it's always been – Boyd commands the unit and therefore everyone who works in it, civilian consultants included. They stare straight at each other, locked into their own private battle of wills. Irresistible force meets immovable object. Clichéd, but nonetheless accurate.

Eve clears her throat, drawing their attention. "I hate to say it, but I agree with Boyd. Go home, Grace."

She's not going to win. Not against both of them. Shifting her gaze from one set of deep brown eyes to another, she grumbles, "Oh, for heaven's sake…"

At the strong hint of capitulation Boyd, at least, seems to relax a fraction. "Think of it as a great opportunity to catch-up with that God-awful soap opera you thought I didn't know you'd started watching."

Damn. "Kat."

Despite the situation, she's certain there's an amused glint in his eye as he inquires, "Who else?"

Grace flaps an expressive hand at her audience. "I need to get my stuff. My coat and my bag…"

"I'll come with you."

Realising there's to be no escape, Grace does the only sensible thing and surrenders to the inevitable. Maybe they're both right, and an extra day or two to rest and gather herself together wouldn't hurt. Getting to her feet isn't too bad. The first few tentative steps aren't too bad, either, but then the lab begins its slow, lazy spin about her again, and she feels herself sway in counterpoint. It's an odd sensation. Feels as if she isn't quite in full contact with the real world. Then she feels her arm being taken again, and everything immediately gets a little steadier. Boyd, of course. She looks up at him, but he just shakes his head, quietly reproving, and doesn't comment. She finds she's leaning more heavily on him than she intends as they make their way out of the lab and into the corridor beyond, Eve's quiet words of caution following them as they remove their lab coats.

"I'm sorry," she apologises again, and at the snort Boyd gives in response, adds, "I feel as if I'm letting the whole team down."

"Don't be ridiculous," is his gruff reply. "For God's sake, woman, you're in the middle of fucking _chemo_."

"Oh, I know," she says, trying to ignore the ridiculous shakiness of her legs. He seems to notice, because the guiding hand on her elbow transfers itself to her waist, providing solid and much-needed support. Grateful, but knowing better than to offer effusive thanks, she adds, "I know I've been lucky so far, just as I know bad days are par for the course, but – "

"Grace," he interrupts, steering her towards the stairs that descend to the squad room and offices, "no-one would have blamed you if you'd decided to take a sabbatical, least of all me, but you didn't, and we're all incredibly grateful to you for it. If you need a few days off here and there, well, so what? It's better for me – for _all_ of us – than having to go through the nightmare of finding and learning to work with a temporary replacement."

"There," she teases, leaning heavily of him as they start downwards, "and I thought you were just concerned for my welfare."

Boyd favours her with a haughty glare. "Purely a secondary consideration, Grace."

She can't help smirking, just a little. "Of _course_ it is."

He gives her a sideways look, but says no more. Some things are best left unspoken. How much they genuinely care about each other beyond the ordinary everyday bickering and squabbling being one of them. Still, he helps her down the rest of the metal stairs and she's grateful for it. The squad room is empty, despite it only being early-afternoon, but still Boyd says nothing. She wonders if he can mentally account for the location of every single one of the CCU's staff – probably – or whether he simply has other things on his mind as he escorts her to the untidy corner of the big space that has become her territory in lieu of a proper office. Never one to miss an opportunity, Grace sighs and says, "Oh for the days when I had a proper workspace…"

Boyd releases his grip and leans himself up against the edge of her desk. "Don't look at me like that. I've passed the request through a dozen times. You know how these things work."

"Or don't, as the case may be," she says, perching on the edge of the nearest chair. "You know, I feel a lot better now, Boyd. Maybe I – "

"No," he says, cutting her off. "Get your stuff together, Grace. You're going home."

"But – "

"No 'buts'."

Defiant, she tries again. "But – "

He gives her a pointed, narrow-eyed look. "You can annoy me all you bloody like, but it won't get you anywhere. Did you drive in this morning?"

"Tube," she tells him, trying to resign herself to her fate. "The consultant said I could drive if I felt well enough, but I decided not to."

"Very wise." He stares at her for a long moment, silent and steady, then exhales loudly as if he's been holding a deep, pent-up breath. "Get a move on, then. I haven't got all day."

Grace frowns in confusion. "Eh?"

"I'm driving you home," Boyd explains with exaggerated patience. "God only knows what'll happen if you end up on a hot, stuffy Tube train on your own."

"Kat could – "

Again, he cuts her off. "Can you see Kat anywhere in the vicinity? No? Well it looks like it's down to me, then, doesn't it? C'mon, Grace, hurry it up."

So very Boyd, she thinks, standing up to collect her bag. Concern masked by a façade of brusque impatience. Heaven forbid that anyone should think even for a moment that he actually cares about the people who work for him. Hiding a slight smile, she makes a slow, deliberate performance of selecting all the things that need to be taken home with her. She imagines she can hear him grinding his teeth, but when she casts him a quick, covert glance he's simply watching her with a restrained sort of exasperation, his arms folded across his broad chest.

How long, she wonders as she selects yet another file to stash away in her bag, have they known each other now? Must be close on fifteen years, with the better part of the last ten spent working closely together in the same unit. Long enough, by far, to have become inextricably entwined in each other's lives, despite the difficult, frosty patch that has thankfully become water under the proverbial bridge. Building on the thought, she looks up at him and says, "You've been very good to me through all of this, Boyd."

The eye-roll she gets in reply is only implied, but no less pointed because of it. "Oh, please. What was I supposed to do, tell you to take extended sick-leave and then completely ignore you until it was all over?"

"Some people in your shoes would have done exactly that."

"Bollocks," he says succinctly. "You know me better. Are you ready?"

He's not a patient man, and never has been. Grace has had a long time to learn not to let it bother her. Reaching for her coat, she feels another unpleasant rush of heat and nausea. Taking a deep breath, she attempts to banish both, silently cursing the poison that kills and cures and wreaks biological havoc as it does so.

"Grace…?"

She looks at him again, and the irascible edge of impatience is gone, replaced by tangible concern and uncertainty. She flutters a hand at him weakly, not trusting herself to speak. Somehow she's simultaneously hot and cold, and the world is threatening to turn grey again. She doesn't notice him move, so caught up in the moment of intense sickness and weakness is she, but suddenly Boyd's right next to her again, and the strong, supportive arm is back around her waist.

_He will never let me fall,_ she thinks in an abstract, dislocated sort of way. _Not now, not ever, not in any way. He will always be there to catch me, whether I need it or not…_

"Sit," he orders, hooking one of the desk chairs closer to them with a deft foot. "Christ, Grace…"

"I'm… all right…" she manages as she subsides. Pulls a face. "I was just thinking this morning that after the first couple of days I'd got away lightly this time… Never tempt fate, eh?"

"Perhaps you should call your oncologist?" Boyd suggests, but there's an underlying note in his voice that tells her he knows it's a pointless thing to propose.

As presumably expected, Grace shakes her head. "No point. Classic side-effects. I'll be fine in a day or two."

"Until the next time," he mutters. "Jesus, it's a God-awful thing, isn't it? Ca… this disease."

"Cancer," she says for him. "You can say it, Boyd. I'm not going to shatter into a million pieces at an unwary mention of it."

He grunts, looks down at her for a long moment, then says, "Do you want me to get Eve down here?"

"No. A doctor she may very well be, but her bedside manner with the living is frankly appalling."

"Probably why she became a pathologist." A brief silence. "Well… is there _anything_ I can do?"

He feels helpless, Grace realises, and he hates it. Boyd is a leader, a problem-solver. The man who gives the orders and gets things done. He's not used to being confronted by something he can't exercise any sort of control over. In that, at least, they are alike. She's not used to it, either. Not used to having to simply wait for things to… resolve. One way or another. No. She can't think like that. The specialists are sure the cancer's all-but gone, sure the chemotherapy is more insurance than active treatment. She _is_ going to walk out of the other side of the nightmare, and soon, too.

"Grace…?" Even more pensive now, as if he has no idea what to do for the best.

"Take me home," she says, the words layered with all sorts of complicated things.

Boyd nods, extends a hand down to her. "Feeling okay to walk?"

"No," Grace admits, "but I'll manage."

She doesn't. Not after the first few shaky yards. She's too weak, and the world is becoming edged with grey again. Boyd steadies her, virtually holds her bodily on her feet, and for a few intent, intense seconds they simply stare at each other, no words necessary. Years of comradeship – _friendship_ – distilled down to one silent moment, loaded with so many unspoken things. They surrender together, helper and helped. He makes no fuss, and she doesn't mock as he lifts her gently off her feet and carries her from the building, ignoring the stray astonished, deeply concerned looks of the few people who see them go.

-oOo-

They don't say much during the journey. The silences between them are long, and to Grace, at least, uncomfortable. Usually when they're alone in a car together they talk about work, or the news, or they argue more-or-less amiably about politics, religion, or anything else they can find that's contentious. They both enjoy it, treat it as a sport, a game to be won or lost. Today, the conversation stalls before it even really gets started. The atmosphere in the car is odd. Certainly not hostile, but brittle in a way that's she's not at all used to, not with him. They've never walked on eggshells around each other, save for on a very few rare occasions. Maybe, she reflects, staring out of the passenger window, this is one of those occasions.

The nausea seems to have abated, and seated she doesn't feel faint or unsteady. It gives her too much time to obsess over the difficult silence and the reasons for it. It's what she does for a living, of course, study and interpret the oddities of human behaviour. She's good at it, too. One of the very best currently working in a very particular field. She suspects there's an irony in the fact that she understands more about the intentions and motivations of serial killers than she does about those of the man sitting next to her.

They're closing on their destination now. Another ten minutes at most, even if the traffic remains dense and tangled all the way to the big junction where they will turn right and head into the tight maze of semi-affluent residential streets where she's lived for more than twenty years. Perhaps that's what makes her suddenly say, "You still haven't quite forgiven me, have you?"

Boyd spares her a quick, puzzled glance. "Eh?"

"For telling you I was going to Copenhagen instead of…" She lets the sentence trail.

He mutters something unintelligible, and for a moment Grace thinks that's the full extent of the response she's going to get, but then he says, "I just… After everything we've been through together…"

"I know," she says, and she does. She's had time to reflect on it all at length, after all. "In hindsight, I didn't handle it well. But… oh, I don't know. Everything happened so quickly. One moment I was making a routine appointment to see my GP because I thought I'd found a lump, the next…"

Boyd keeps his gazed fixed on the traffic ahead of them. "You don't have to explain."

"Don't I?" Grace shakes her head. "I think I do. I think you want – _need_ – me to."

"This isn't about me," he says, still not looking at her. "None of it's about me. Credit me with enough self-awareness to know that."

"You're my _friend_, Boyd. Friends… should talk. Shouldn't they?"

Another quick glance. "It's never been quite that simple with us, has it?"

"No," she admits, surprised to hear him say it. "No, it hasn't. Work gets in the way of a lot, doesn't it?"

"By necessity." He sounds defensive.

"It wasn't a criticism. Just an observation." She goes back to staring out of the window, not sure if they are arguing or not. Straightforward communication has never been a strong feature of their relationship. Into the renewed silence, she asks, "Why did you come to see me in the hospital when you found out? According to Eve, you dropped everything and rushed straight over."

"What the hell else was I supposed to do? Christ, Grace."

They've reached the junction. She waits for him to complete the turn before she says, "I was incredibly grateful. I still am."

"Don't go all maudlin on me," Boyd warns, "or I might just stop the damned car and make you walk the rest of the way home."

He never would. Not in a million years. They both know it. Games upon games. Grace turns her head a fraction to look at him as he drives. The tight, stubborn set of his jaw tells her how uncomfortable he is with the direction of the conversation, reminds her of just how incapable he is of acknowledging the true extent of his own compassion and humanity. Boyd, she concluded a long time ago, exists in a cold, grim world where the exaggerated vision of his many flaws manages to eclipse everything else. He does not – _cannot_ – easily see himself as anything but the quick-tempered, workaholic tyrant who managed to drive even his own wife and son away.

Sometimes, when Grace looks back over the rocky course of her private life, she wonders if she and Boyd are not far more alike than either of them would ever willingly admit.

"Grace," he says, breaking into her gloomy reverie. She glances at him and he continues, "Will you do me a favour?"

"Of course," she replies without a moment's hesitation as he turns the car into the long, straight road that leads eventually to her own.

"Don't come back to work tomorrow. Even if you think you feel fine when you wake up, don't come into work. Stay at home. Rest. Have a quiet weekend, then come back on Monday if – and only _if_ – you're up to it."

"Sick of the sight of me?" she teases, mainly to cover the unworthy twinge of hurt and rejection she feels.

Boyd looks straight at her for a moment. He doesn't speak until his gaze is back on the road ahead. "If I'm worrying about _you_, I'm not giving my full attention to all the other things that need it. These are difficult times for the unit, you know that. The whole Linda Cummings thing… the inquiry into her death may have exonerated me, but you can bet any money you like that I'm being watched by beady eyes from on high. One wrong move…"

"You don't need to worry about me, I'm – "

"Don't say 'fine'," he interrupts. "I'm sick to death of hearing that bloody word. You're _not_ fine. _You_ know it, _I_ know it… half the bloody _Met_ knows it. You're not fine, but with luck you soon will be. Until then, I need you to play the game, Grace. Please."

She opens her mouth to protest, then closes it again as it occurs to her, almost for the first time, just how profound an effect her illness has had on him. For years they've simply… been there for each other. Often silently and unobtrusively, but always just… there. Ready to step forward when required. Ready to comfort or cajole, to bully or to sympathise. Never afraid to speak their minds, to say the things others can't or won't say. For so many years, in fact, that they've just become a habit to each other. Sometimes exasperating, sometimes endearing, but always constant.

"Grace…?"

He thinks he's gone too far, she realises. Thinks he's offended her. She turns her head to look at him again, says, "All right."

Boyd frowns, gives her a quick, troubled look. "It's not personal."

"I know. I understand, Boyd." Frowning as she analyses her thoughts, she continues, "I haven't been very fair to you and the others, have I? Coming into work whenever possible rather than staying at home out of the way. I've been a bit of a liability, haven't I?"

"No," he says staunchly, but she can tell it's an automatic response, far from heartfelt. A moment later he sighs heavily. "Okay, maybe a bit. But that's my fault for not addressing the issue sooner. We hate it, Grace. _I_ hate it. Knowing what you're going through, knowing there's nothing any of us can do to make it any easier for you."

"So you'd all rather I was at work where you can see me, even if that's putting an additional emotional strain on everyone," she guesses.

"Suppose so," Boyd concedes. "Look, Grace – "

"It's okay," she tells him, meaning it. "It really is. If it's any consolation, I think you're probably right. There have been days when I knew I wasn't up to par, but was too stubborn to admit it."

"Care to say that again in front of witnesses?"

The not-quite flippant question breaks the tension that's been building between then, and Grace allows a quiet chuckle. "Absolutely not."

They are in her street now, rolling past the houses of people she knows to varying degrees. New neighbours and old. There's a 'For Sale' board in the garden of her immediate neighbours to the right. Newly retired couple with children who flew the nest long ago. Moving out of London altogether, apparently. The price they're asking for the house that is an exact mirror of hers is so exorbitant she's almost tempted to retire and sell up herself. Almost, but not quite.

Boyd parks immediately behind her car, close in to the kerb. When Grace looks at him, he is looking at her house, expression contemplative. She says, "I can't remember the last time you were here."

"It was a while back," he agrees, tone absolutely neutral.

Before Luke. Before Sarah, even? Yes, she thinks it was. She recalls the occasion now. He drove her home after a long and tedious training course at some obscure Metropolitan Police outpost near Brent Cross. A quick coffee and then he was gone, foiling her half-formed plan to ask him to stay for dinner. She wonders whether he would have accepted the invitation or not.

Releasing his seatbelt, Boyd opens the driver's door. "Come on, then, let's get you inside."

"I'm not an invalid," she protests, exactly as she had earlier, but he's already out of the car. Infuriating man.

A few seconds later, the passenger door opens and he looks down at her. "I know knights in shining armour are passé, but if you need me to carry you again…"

"No carrying," Grace tells him, extricating herself from the car. Once, she thinks, was quite disturbing enough. Not exactly unpleasant, though. Actually, very far from it, but…

There's always a 'but'. Always has been with them.

"Fine," he replies, closing the car door for her. "My back's very grateful to you."

"You don't have to march me to the door, either."

"I don't think Eve would ever forgive me if I didn't."

With a derisive sniff, she walks ahead of him towards the front door. Doesn't need to look round to know he's right behind her like a faithful shadow. Stopping, she begins to search through her bag for her keys. It's a good excuse not to look at him as she says, "I'd invite you in, but since you're supposed to be working…"

"Yeah," Boyd replies with a notable lack of enthusiasm. A slight scuffling noise tells her he's shifting his weight uncomfortably from one foot to the other. He always fidgets when he's uneasy.

Locating her keys, she turns to face him. "Thank you. For today. For all of it."

"No need to thank me, Grace. You said it yourself – I'm your friend. It's just what friends do."

"It is," she agrees. Friends. It's enough. More than enough. The small, rebellious part of her that's always furtively yearned for far more between them is easily silenced after so many painful years of practice.

"Monday, then," Boyd says, still looking down at her. "Not before."

"Not before," she concurs.

He nods, apparently satisfied. "Good."

"Good," Grace echoes, hating how inane they both sound. He regards her for a second more, then turns on his heel and starts to walk the few steps back to the pavement. She wants to say more, but what is there to say, really?

Boyd stops. Looks back at her. "Call me, Grace. If you don't feel well, or you need something, call me. Today, tomorrow, whenever. I mean it."

He does. She can see it in his eyes. Warmth – different to the unpleasant creeping heat of earlier – tingles through her. _He cares, Grace, he really does care…_

"I will," she says. And means it every bit as much as he does. He nods, gives her a brief, small smile, then turns away again. Grace watches him until he's back in his car, then turns to unlock her front door.

Friendship. It's enough. Maybe for now, maybe forever.

_\- the end -_


End file.
